Steve Blade
by readyandpsyched
Summary: "This is the story of how I found and then lost Steve."


Trigger warning for abuse, some language.

"This is the story of how I found and then lost Steve: On the first day of fifth grade, I was in the cafeteria sitting by myself near the windows, and he came up to me, punched me in the arm and said, 'Cool Jurassic Park lunch box.'

I said, 'Thanks, it was my sister's,' but then I immediately wished I had said something different because I realized how mortifying it was to say that I had a hand-me-down lunch box from my older sister. And I couldn't get over how strange it was that his way of saying 'hello' was a sock to the arm. It hurt a bit but I didn't say so. I did give him a questioning look, but all he did in response was grin and sit down in the empty seat across from me. We ate out respective turkey and peanut butter sandwiches in silence.

I don't really recall when we first started actually talking to one another, having real conversations. It was probably after the first week or so. Tentative attempts at communication, toe-dips into the water like 'So…do you like math?' or 'What's your favorite Pokemon?' or 'Isn't it unfair how short recess is?' gave way to actual conversations after we'd gotten used to one another. I was happy to eat my lunch in silence, just content that another person was sitting with me so I didn't look quite so pitiable, but Steve was a talker and once he got his footing, so to speak, he didn't shut his mouth.

This was good because I was more of a 'sit quietly, listen and nod' kind of boy then and we fit together nicely. I learned that Steve was new to Celina; his parents had just moved to town from somewhere in West Virginia because his dad worked in 'manufacturing' (I wasn't entirely sure what that meant but I assumed it meant a factory, probably the Honda factory). He was a little taller and skinnier than me with tan skin and short black-brown hair.

He had a lazy southern accent that made him occasionally hard to understand, but at the same time it was entrancing and the stories he wove came out sing-songy like he was reciting an epic. Steve was an incredible story teller and I remember being amazed by all the places he'd lived and the adventures he'd had, or at least they sounded like adventures to me. He had a way of conveying a story that made any mundane scenario sound grand and hilarious and exciting and wonderful. I'd lived in Celina my whole life and Celina was pretty boring—we had a lake and some neat forests and a cool Fourth of July fireworks show every year, but that was about it. I didn't have any epic stories to share, but I liked listening to Steve's stories probably as much as he liked telling them.

We were in different classes that year—I had Mrs. Briggs and he had Ms. Moranski—so our time together was confined to lunch, recess, and outside of school. Shortly after we'd become friends Steve started inviting himself over to my house after school, where we'd watch TV or play out in the backyard or go on bike rides around the neighborhood or to the lake. 'Becoming friends' wasn't really a conscious decision on either of our parts—I didn't have that kind of foresight or situational awareness as that age to think that there was even a decision to be made. We just started hanging out together and after a while we were only hanging out with each other and that meant we were friends.

One day, early on probably in September, he asked me if I wanted to go out to the park on Sunday, but I told him I couldn't. 'I have church on Sunday, and this Sunday is a fast day so I can't really do anything.'

He looked at me incredulously. 'You can't do _anything_ on Sunday?'

I shrugged and nodded.

'Oh. That's weird.'

'What's weird?'

'I dunno. We don't really go to a church. We used to go one in Wayland, when I was little, with my grandparents and my Aunt Ruth, but that was when we lived in Kentucky. That was a while back.'

'You could come to my church. I can ask my mom and you can come with us this weekend. You can come to my Primary class and I'm sure it'd be—'

He cut me off. 'No, that's okay. I don't think my dad'd be cool with that anyway.'

'Oh…okay.'

I hadn't ever felt like a weird kid until Steve started pointing out these little things that to me were completely normal—that there weren't other kids around who had to wear suits and study scripture, who weren't allowed to watch certain movies and TV shows, and who could never play on Sundays. There weren't very many Mormon families in Celina; there were the Pattersons and the Morgans whose kids went to West Elementary and West Intermediate on the other side of town, and then the Browns, who had five older children already in high school or college. I was the only Mormon kid at my school. There were more families in St. Mary's (where the nearest chapel was) and so we would go there a lot to meet with people, which took up every Sunday and most Wednesday nights.

Still, the way that Steve said 'weird' wasn't mean—it made me feel more 'unique' than 'weird.' There were these things that I did and things that he did and we sort of fell into each others' routines. It was easy; he didn't mind that I didn't like bad language or that I didn't know certain pop culture references, and I didn't mind that he hated strawberries or always wanted to hang out at my house. We had an unspoken agreement that we were friends and that was that.

There were things that we didn't tell each other, that were known but generally unspoken. Steve never said that he didn't actually believe in God and I never said how sad that made me. I didn't realize until much later on that Steve was always coming over to my place because he was ashamed of how poor his house was, and how he didn't want to spend any more time with his dad that was absolutely necessary, because the old man was an absolute bastard and a drunk. I didn't tell Steve that I didn't really have a real best friend until he came along, and he didn't tell me that because he moved around so much he never had a best friend either.

I didn't really understand at first why Steve wanted to be my friend. I was smart and kind and I thought I was pretty funny, but didn't think of myself as particularly interesting. Steve was animated and funny and fearless and impulsive and forward and thoroughly persuasive. He was brash, but not in a terribly off-putting sort of way. The other kids likely found him to be abrasive, moody, pushy, and unapproachable. I didn't, though, and he didn't find me to be uncomfortably quiet or too boring. There was no pretention in our relationship—we were honest and forgiving and it just worked, somehow.

That fall we spent a lot of time together. On my birthday my parents took us out to the Eastown Drive-In and we ate popcorn and hot dogs and watched Dinosaur on the big outdoor screen. In October, on Halloween, we went to the Haunted Forest at Pullman Park where my sister was running the concession stand and gave us free caramel apples. I showed him my favorite trails in the woods by the lake and we follow deer tracks in the snow and made snow men in my front yard.

That Christmas break my family went to visit my grandparents (my dad's side) in Mt. Pleasant (an eight hour drive to Iowa that I always hated, scrunched in the back seat with my sister Rachel), and when we got back and school started again in January. I was relieved for school to resume because I liked school and I missed seeing Steve every day.

In May, when it got warmer out, I took Steve to my favorite place in Celina, the lake shore north of Pullman Bay Park. We ditched out bikes by the edge of the woods and scrambled through the trees and downed branches and out across the slippery rocks till we were at the waters edge. Protected by the dense forest and rocky shoreline, there were no other people around, just a few ducks bobbing on the water. It was quiet and the water was still. I pointed out a short distance from the shore.

Steve looked out. 'It's an island.'

'Yeah, isn't it cool?'

'Yeah, it is. It's small.'

'It pretty much disappears when the water is higher, just those three trees sticking out. It's like a private island.' I sat down on the rocks.

Steve seemed to survey the surroundings, then declared, 'Let's go out there.'

'Oh, gosh, I don't think so,' I stammered. 'There isn't a lifeguard on this part of the lakeshore, plus I don't have a swimsuit with me…' I looked up at Steve and he'd dropped his backpack and was wrestling his t-shirt off over his head. I knew it was a bad idea, but he'd already hastily kicked off his shoes and was hopping on one foot trying to pull off a sock.

He reached down and grabbed my arm, pulling me to my feet and shouting with a wide infectious smile, 'Come on!' I sighed and obliged, taking off my shoes and socks and polo shirt, placing then in a tidy pile on the rocks. I stood in my shorts with my feet in the water testing the temperature, and Steve ran past me, crashing into the water and resurfacing, sputtering and laughing. The water was shallow and we mostly waded across the channel to the island.

It really was amazing. We claimed the island as our own, explored it (all thousand square feet of it, probably), and discussed how we would equip it to make it a functional and well-guarded fortress. We wrestled in the water. We lay out on the grainy sand of the quickly-receding strip of beach in the hot late-afternoon sun telling each other everything—about our families and our dreams and our hopes and fears. It was an escapist, idyllic fantasy, and we made plans to come back and set it up for real when school got out for the summer.

Then, June happened. School had been over for a week and I was in my room reading on a rainy Friday night in mid June when I heard an intermittent clicking at my window and went to investigate. I looked out—nothing, just the spattering of rain against the glass. Then another click, like something hitting the window. I looked down and saw Steve, standing on the back porch in a dark hooded windbreaker holding out a handful of gravel, tossing stones up at my window to get my attention.

I had no idea what he was doing at my place. I opened my window and called out into the evening cold, 'Steve?'

'Yeah.'

I lowered my voice so no one in the house would hear me and hissed, 'What are you doing here?'

'Can you let me in?' He was uncharacteristically somber.

'Okay…stay there at the back door, I'll come down.'

I did a quick mental scan of the house: Rachel was in her room, Mom was in the office, Dad was away on work. I tiptoed downstairs and unlatched the back door and let Steve in. He was dripping wet from the rain. I asked again in a whisper, 'What are you doing here?'

'I just needed to get out of my place for a while. My dad's in a mood.'

I knew what that meant. 'A mood' was code for 'drunk'. 'Oh,' I said.

'Can we go upstairs?'

'Yeah, sure.'

We went upstairs to my bedroom and Steve closed the door cautiously behind us. He stripped off his wet jacket and shoes and tossed them in the corner. 'Listen…can I just stay here tonight?'

'Yeah, of course. I should really tell my mom, though—'

'No!' he protested, 'Please…don't tell her, 'cause then she's gonna call my house.'

'Steve, I have to.'

'Please.'

'I _have_ to. Just…you know my mom, she won't tell I promise.' Steve made that stubborn face that he always made, but then he nodded in assent.

I left him in my room and went down the hall to the office where my mom was working. I poked my head in through the door. 'Mom, is it okay if Steve spends the night?'

She was writing at the wood roll-top desk, the yellow light from the lamp glowing in her brown curls. She tilted her head up but didn't look back at me. 'Sure, honey, does he want me to come pick him up?'

'No…uh, he biked here.'

'He's here already?' I watched her look at her watch, look outside, then swivel around in the chair and look at me. She removed her reading glasses and let the dangle from her neck. A concerned look formed on her face and she gestured for me to come closer. I did, nervously. 'Sweetie, what's wrong?'

'Nothing.'

'Connor.' She gave me a stern look. 'Did something happen at Steve's house?'

'No, nothing, really! His dad was just…angry, and he wanted to get out for a while.'

Her face went sad, just heartbroken sad. 'Oh goodness…' She held me by both shoulders. 'Connor, you have to tell me the truth. Did Steve's dad hit him? Did he hurt him in any way?'

'No! Well…I don't think so… I don't know. He didn't say. I don't think so.'

'Did he hit Steve's mom?'

'…I don't know.'

A flash of anger passed across her face, and she spun around and reached for the wall phone. 'I'm calling over there right now.'

'No!' I shouted. 'You can't!'

'Connor, I need to make sure that Steve and his mother are safe, and that means finding out what is going on.'

'Please, no, you can't! Steve doesn't want them to know he's here.'

'Connor, I—'

'_Please_…I promised. Just…wait until tomorrow, can you? Please?'

She reluctantly placed the phone back in the receiver. 'Okay.' She sighed and put her hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes again. 'Tomorrow morning I'm going to call over there, though. I'll have your father come home early and talk to him too, if I have to. Steve can stay here, but we need to see what is going on. Do you understand that we need to take this seriously?'

'Yeah.'

'Okay.' She leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. 'Well, you two go off and do…whatever it is you do. D'you want some bagel bites? I'll put some bagel bites in the oven for you two, okay?'

'Okay.'

She gave my shoulder a squeeze. 'You know I love you, honey. And tell Steve he can stay here as long as he wants.'

'Okay.'

I walked back to my room and shut the door behind me. Steve was sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of my bed.

I stopped short for a second. 'You're…wearing my pajamas.'

'Yeah, my jeans were soaked from the rain.'

'Oh…Okay.' I sat down next to him. We didn't say anything for a few minutes—I couldn't think of what would be appropriate to ask or how to be comforting. I settled on, 'So, what happened?'

Steve let out a long frustrated sigh, not frustrated with me but with the whole situation. He shifted his body so that he leaned up against my shoulder, his long legs stretched out in front of him parallel to the bed. The too-short blue flannel pajama pants looked ridiculous on him. 'It's the same crap. He came home drunk like always and he and my mom were yellin' and then I yell at them to be quiet and then he's yellin' at me and he grabs me and calls me…well, something. I won't say it 'cause I know you don't like it.' Steve was quiet for a few moments.

'…What did he call you?'

'You don't want to hear it.'

'Tell me,' I said softly.

'He called me 'a good-for-nothing disrespectful piece of shit faggot who's always holdin' him back'. …Yeah, he's a _real_ winner. Most of that's not even true. So I got pissed and I yelled at him and I left.'

I had no idea how to respond, and I didn't know what some of the words meant but I wasn't going to ask. I just said, 'Gosh.'

He let out a bitter laugh. 'Yeah, 'gosh' is right… Whatever, I'm over it. He sucks, let's not talk about it.'

'Are you sure?'

A long pause. '…No.'

Silence. Steve was distractedly rubbing his arm with his left hand. I glanced over and caught a glimpse of pink-purple peeking out under his fingers. I hesitantly reached over and lifted up the sleeve of his (my) t-shirt—a splotchy red and purple bruise ringed around nearly his entire bicep. It was faint, but noticeable. I exhaled a concerned 'Oh…geez, Steve…'

He slapped his hand abruptly down on top of mine, holding it in place so I couldn't pull away, and said firmly, 'Please…don't. It's nothing.' I didn't know what to say. He held my hand there for a minute, then let his slide down and rest in his lap.

He slouched down farther and leaned his head back against my shoulder. I let my head fall to the side to rest against his—I didn't know how to be comforting in that kind of situation, but I figured the touch would mean something. Steve didn't really have a sense of personal boundaries, or, rather, he wasn't uncomfortable with closeness the way most people are. I'd gotten used to the fact that he was a very physical person, very close.

More silence, then I ventured another question. 'Are you afraid of your dad?'

'No,' he replied quickly, defiantly, stubbornly.

'Okay. …Has he done that before?'

'What, been a drunk bastard? Yeah, tons of times.'

'No, I mean…' I gestured at his arm.

'Oh…no. That's a first.'

'Oh. …What are you going to do?'

'I dunno.'

I heard a light knock at the door and my mom came in, carrying a plate of snacks. She set the plate on the bed and squatted down on the floor by us. 'Steve, honey, are you okay?' she asked in a motherly tone.

'Yeah, I'm fine.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yeah.'

She let out a small, sad sigh. 'Well, I just want you to know that you can stay here as long as you want, okay?' Steve nodded. 'You're safe here and you can talk to me about anything, anytime you feel comfortable. Okay?' He nodded again. She gave him a warm smile and a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then nodded at me and left. Steve crawled up onto the bed. We sat across from each other, eating and talking about happier things, plans for summer vacation, what sixth grade at the middle school was going to be like, books we'd read, how we'd prepare for the coming zombie uprising.

Eventually I was so tired I couldn't keep me eyes open. Steve was still talking, and I let him keep going, as I, on the opposite side of the bed lying on top of the covers, drifted in and out of the conversation. He was saying something about astronauts, I think, when he unexpectedly reached over a grabbed my hand, intertwining our fingers and holding it tightly. He didn't speak for a long moment; we both stared up at the ceiling, hands clasped together in the middle of the bed. 'Just…promise me that you won't leave me. Everyone else sucks, but you don't.'

I was touched. Of course I wouldn't, I thought, he was my best friend. 'Yeah, I promise.'

'Good.'

The next day we had soccer practice (Spring soccer league had started in April and I had convinced Steve to join with me; it was great to have a real friend on the team) and my mom let us sleep late. We ate toaster waffles in front of the TV and watched cartoons. I lent Steve my extra set of equipment and Rachel dropped us off for practice in her car and told us that my mom would pick us up afterward.

Practice was held at Eastview Park, and we waited by the playground for my mom to come get us after practice was over. We sat in the shade of the trees behind the swing set, chatting. Steve was carving at the bark of a tree with a sharpened stick and I was idly tying and untying my cleats. He asked me, out of the blue, 'D'you think you'll get married when you're older?'

'Yeah,' I replied right away, adding, 'Definitely.'

'Really?'

'Yeah.'

'Why?'

I didn't have an answer to that question. I thought for a moment. 'I don't know. That's just what you do. Why? Will you?'

'No…I don't think so,' he said with certainty. 'Don't really see the point.'

'Oh.'

'I mean, why would you even want to?'

'I don't know. That's just what you do when you find a girl you like.'

'Do you even know a girl you'd like to marry?'

'Well…no,' I answered truthfully. 'Do you?'

'Ugh, no. Girls? Can't stand 'em.'

'Have you ever…kissed a girl?' I ventured, genuinely curious.

'No way. Have you?'

'No.'

'You know if you get married, you'll have to kiss them.'

'I—I know that,' I said defensively. 'I…I don't really know how though.'

His eyes flashed and he smiled cleverly as he got an idea. 'Well, here, practice with me.'

'No!' I cried reflexively. 'We can't—I can't do that!'

'Why not?'

'Because you're a boy, and I'm a boy.'

'So? Come on, it'll just be practice,' he said excitedly. I tried to think of other objections, but came up short. I was exceedingly uncomfortable, but I didn't know how to say no, so I kept quiet. Steve positioned himself cross-legged in front of me and took my hand in his. 'Here, just follow my lead.' He closed his eyes and puckered his lips, so I did the same.

He leaned in toward me and his lips touched mine and they were soft and warm and they fit, like a missing puzzle piece. I felt his lips spread out into a smile. It was awkward, then it was strange, then it was nice, then it was terrifying. It was just practice, it wasn't supposed to feel…good. It was all wrong. I pulled back abruptly and stared back at Steve confused and shocked at my own reaction.

'What, did I do it wrong?' He reluctantly let go of my hand.

'H—how am I supposed to know?' I sputtered.

Steve laughed, 'Well, I'm pretty sure I did it right…and I liked it.' I didn't say anything in response for a moment.

'Y—you're not supposed to like it.'

'Says who?'

'Says…' I trailed off. 'Says Heavenly Father' felt too weird to say, so I didn't say it.

'Did you?'

'I don't know.' An honest answer.

'Connor,' he said, taking my hand again, 'You're my best friend. And I love you.' He sounded so certain, so self-assured and confident in his declaration.

I, on the other hand, was none of those things. I scooted back in the dirt, panicked. 'What are you saying? You're not supposed to be saying that.'

'Why not?'

'B—because you're not.'

'If…' he started tentatively, 'If I had to get married, I'd marry you.'

'No no no, you're not supposed to say that either.'

'Why?'

'That's just…not the way it works. You're not supposed to like me in…that way.'

'Why not? You're my best friend. Am I your best friend?'

'Yeah, of course.'

'And do you love me?' I couldn't say it back because I didn't know. I had never thought about him in that way. The notion had never once crossed my mind. Not once, and I didn't know how to process all of this new information, so I didn't say anything. I guess that I did, in a platonic way…but in that other way? I had no idea. The momentary idea of marrying one's best friend was appealing, but I was sure that that was against the rules.

'It's okay if you don't know,' he said plainly, 'You don't have to say anything.' I nodded dumbly, staring down at my shoes.

'Are you mad?' I asked. This was wholly bizarre and discomfiting, but I didn't want him to be angry with me for not saying anything, even if he assured me that it was okay.

'No, of course not. Are you?'

'No, I guess not. It's just a little…weird.'

Steve perked his head up distractedly and pointed over to the parking lot. 'Your mom's here.'

We trudged back to the car and climbed into the back seat. When we were on the road, my mom craned her head around and asked, 'Steve, would you like to come back to our place for lunch, or do you want to be dropped off at home?'

He said, 'Home's fine.'

'You sure, honey?'

'Yeah.'

So we drove out to Steve's place and by then I was feeling less weird and I said 'See you later' or 'See you on Monday' or something like that as he got out of the car. My mom got out too, and I saw her squat down in the driveway to talk with Steve, but I didn't hear what she said.

When we got back to the house my dad was already home, and we all ate lunch together before Rachel left for dance practice (I still resent that she got to continue dance while I didn't). I was flipping through a magazine on the couch while my dad was clearing dishes and I asked him offhandedly, 'Dad, do I _really_ have to marry a girl when I'm older?'

He chuckled jollily, 'Of course! Who else would you marry? A horse?' Another laugh. 'Why do you ask?'

'No reason, just some guys at practice were talking about it.' A lie-ish.

Dad chuckled again, 'A little early for them to start thinking of marriage, don't you think?' He sat down next to me on the couch and explained all about how yes, marriage between a man and a woman is essential to God's eternal plan, and that yes, one day I'd find a nice woman to marry. He said that when he and my mom got married he was so happy because he was marrying his best friend and he got to spend the rest of his life with her.

Inside, I was freaking out, thinking that he knew what had happened after practice. A hundred questions raced through my head, like, 'Well what am I supposed to do if my best friend is a guy?' 'What if I don't find a nice woman to marry?' 'If I find a nice woman to marry, does that mean I can't have my best friend anymore?' 'What am I supposed to do when my best friend said he loved me?' 'What does it mean if he kissed me and it felt real, not like practice?' 'What does it mean if I liked it?' 'What does it mean if maybe I love him too?'

I didn't hear from Steve that night and I went to bed feeling anxious and nauseous. I prayed, asking for guidance; I hadn't felt like I'd done anything wrong, I just wanted answers to my questions, but apparently Heavenly Father wasn't feeling very forthcoming.

I had the first of what would be many nightmares that night, a collage of ghoulish images and scenes and sounds that I was sure were because of what had happened with Steve and what my dad had said.

I woke up late and had to rush to get ready to leave for chapel. We spent the entire day in St. Mary's, and I felt uneasy the whole time. I couldn't put my finger on it then, but I just had a feeling that something was wrong.

When we got home there was a message on the machine from Steve that just said, 'Hi, Connor, it's me, call me back,' so I called him up.

'Hey, I got your message, sorry, we've been in St. Mary's all day. What's up?'

'I found out why my dad was so mad Friday night.'

'Why?'

'He got fired from the plant. Said they just 'couldn't handle his style of workin'.'

'Oh…sorry.'

'My Uncle Ron said he can get him a job in Pensacola.'

'Oh, well that's good. In Florida?'

'Yeah.'

Then it dawned on me. 'Wait…no, that doesn't mean—'

'Uh huh. We're movin'. To Florida.' I could tell that he was trying to sound like it was nothing at all, like it was a joke, but his voice cracked with sadness.

My heart fell out of my chest. I slid down on the floor in the space between the pantry and the stove. 'You're moving? But…no, you can't…. When?'

'Apparently tomorrow.'

'_Tomorrow_? You're joking!'

'No, unfortunately, this time I'm not joking.'

'Wh—what are you going to do?'

'What can I do? I'm going to Florida. Apparently my dad got fired weeks ago but he kept leavin' every day and didn't tell us until now. He's already got a new place for us set up with his brother.'

'But…I don't—I can't—.' Anything I could think of saying sounded stupid and needy in my head. 'I don't want you to go' 'You're my best friend, you need to stay with me' 'It isn't fair'—it all felt trite and clichéd, so I just said, 'You have to come over…tonight…before you leave.'

There was a long pause. 'Yeah, I'll be over… I just have to wait till my dad goes to bed so I can sneak out.'

'Okay.'

'Okay.'

I clicked the phone off and set the receiver on the floor. I didn't want to get up. I looked around in panic for some way to fix it, to make it not true. I wasn't sure what to do, but I figured I should tell my mom, who was sitting across the house in the living room. I called out to her in a quiet, cracked voice, 'Mom… Steve's moving to Florida.'

She lowered her newspaper and looked aghast. '_What_? Mr. Blade didn't say anything about that yesterday. Oh! That Godforsaken sonofagun…' She looked over at me and her expression softened; she set the newspaper down, came over to the kitchen and sat down next to me on the floor, pulling me close and putting her arm around me. 'I'm so sorry, honey,' she said, giving me a squeeze and kissing me on the forehead. 'I know how much Steve means to you.' She patted my hair gently and rocked back and forth, cooing 'I'm so sorry' over and over again.

I trudged up to my room and sat on the edge of my bed, legs dangling off the side, trying to parse through how I could be feeling frustrated and angry and sad and nervous all at the same time. I was frustrated because I'd had no idea, I just had no idea that Steve felt that way and now he was leaving, and I was eleven years old, I wasn't supposed to have to deal with these kinds of things, I wasn't supposed to have to deal with loss and love and messes like that. And I was irrationally angry with Steve for not telling me sooner so we could have had at least a little bit of time to figure things out, and at myself for not thinking about it sooner, and at his no-good jerk of a father for causing all this, and at my mom for not finding out when she talked to him on Saturday morning and at God for giving me all of these confusing feelings and not helping me sort them out. And then I was sad because I was losing my best friend, and nervous because I didn't know how I was supposed to say goodbye or tell him how much he meant to me.

About an hour later there was a knock on the front door and I flew down the stairs to answer it. Steve stood on the front step looking dejected and worn out. 'Hi,' he said.

'Hi,' I said. Not knowing what to do next, I went the impulsive route and threw my arms around him and hugged him, saying, 'I'm sorry.'

'I'm sorry, too,' he whispered back. 'Listen, I can't stay very long. My dad told me to be back soon and I don't really want to cross him, so…yeah.'

'Yeah. …Do you wanna go upstairs?'

'Sure.' He followed me up to my room and we sat down on the floor, leaned up against the bed.

'This sucks,' he said, kicking his legs out in a huff. 'I mean, I've always moved around a lot and it sucked but it was fine because, whatever, I didn't get too close to anyone, but I never had…you. I just don't want to leave.'

'I don't want you to leave either.'

'Augh, I just hate him, I hate him so much.'

'Your dad?'

'Yeah. He just ruins everything, he's never done anything good in his life. Just—augh, just fuck him. …Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to say that.'

'It's fine.'

He folded his arms across his chest and sighed. 'It just…sucks.'

'I know.'

I reached out and took his hand. If I was going to say it, it had to be then. I was so nervous. 'I love you, Steve.'

His whole face brightened. 'Really? Because you don't have to say it if you don't.'

'No, I do. Well, I think I do. I mean, you're my best friend. Of course I do.'

'Thanks.'

'Yeah. It feels right, to say it.' He leaned his head down on my shoulder and I rested mine on his. We just sat there, holding hands, waiting until the inevitable time when Steve would leave for good. "

Connor's hip was falling asleep and he shifted on the scratchy dorm room couch.

"I mean," he continued, "It was wretched, and when he left I cried and cried and cried, but I got that first glimpse of what it feels like when you love someone and they love you back. And that was, what, eleven years ago?"

Kevin nodded, tracing lazy circles on Connor's palm, smiling adoringly down at the redhead lying across his lap.

"And now I have that again." Connor smiled and grasped Kevin's hand, intertwining their fingers and holding it against his chest. "Now I've got you."

Kevin grinned even wider and blushed. Connor propped himself up on one elbow and leaned up to give Kevin a brief kiss. He settled back down comfortably in Kevin's lap. "Steve was my first love, but you, you're my last."


End file.
